Where the Ocean Meets the Sun
by veni3vidi3vici
Summary: Scenes of the lovers Annie Cresta and Finnick Odair. WARNING: SPOILERS!
1. The Beginning of the End

AUTHOR'S NOTES: This fan-fiction series includes spoilers from all three books in the Hunger Games trilogy, especially the last. I recommend that you read all three books first.

Chapters will be posted upon writing, and all writing is subject to minor edits post-publication. Chapters bounce around between time periods and perspectives, and follow no real pattern.

You can follow me on Tumblr and Twitter (imxthexbridget) for more updates. Comments/concerns/suggestions are greatly appreciated. Most importantly, thank you for reading, and enjoy! -Bridget Who

Chapter 1: The Begging of the End (Finnick's POV)

_No, no, no._ I can, I will hold onto this ladder. Rung after rung, I climb as fast as sore, bruised, bleeding hands will carry me.

Not nearly fast enough.

Rung by rung. Keep moving. I see Gale disappear, swathed in the darkness of the tunnel above. I am the last one.

Somewhere just above my head is a world where there is light. Sunshine. And most importantly, there is my Annie. My dear Annie, who just a few days ago was elated to find she was carrying my baby, whom we both swore not to tell a soul about until my return. My dear Annie, whom I promised to love until the day I die. Not today.

Slowly, I creep towards the world where my Annie and our child exist. A world I hoped to make better by agree to go on this mission. So that no child of mine would ever have to submit their name on Reaping day, to be forced to live the nightmare of the Games.

I am aware of the hissing behind me, escaping scaly lips. "Katnisss." Closer. Closer.

"Get out!" However close it is, I can tell by the fact that light has not permeated the tunnel that the hatch to the outside has not been opened. I can only pray that the rest of the group has continued climbing.

In answer, I hear shouting above me. A light – not natural, most likely from a spare flashlight – illuminates my face. Everything else is drowned out by the searing pain in my ankle, the shriek that escapes me and reverberates off the walls as teeth sink into flesh.

The mutts have caught up to me; their putrid stench of roses and death mingles with that of the toxic waste below and fills my nostrils. When I sneak a look down, my eyes meet their bitter black ones – soulless, empty but positively radiating evil. Their lips and jagged, razor-like teeth are stained crimson with blood. My own. I am watching myself being eaten alive.

I hear more screaming. My own. I wait for the white-hot pain – like being viciously picked at with a fishing spear and being burned a thousand times over, all at once – to grow, but instead it surprises me by ebbing to a light tingling.

I should be terrified by the carnage of limbs being torn off me bit by bit, but instead an odd sense of tranquility fills me.

One particularly bloodthirsty mutt makes a leap for me. His jaws find my head, my face, my shoulders, but instead of a fleeting image of jaws encasing me, I see abstract pieces of everything beautiful in my life. Falling asleep next to Annie, her hand clasped firmly in my own. Sunset over the ocean. Waves crashing to shore. My siblings, giggling as they constructed sandcastles or scavenged for sand dollars on the beach. Sea breeze on my face. Annie's laughter, rare and delicate and beautiful like the chiming of perfect little bells. Toes digging in the sand. Sails flapping in the wind. Mags' wrinkled grin. A silver parachute to save my life. The hum of my trident coming to life. Annie in her wedding gown. Annie. I pause on her just a moment. Annie, who I could hardly detach myself from to take on this mission. My Annie.

Then everything goes blank.

When I come to, I am acutely aware of my surroundings. Whatever I'm clothed in feels like bedsheets, soft and billowy. Next, I am aware of the heavy breathing beside me.

My eyelids flutter open. It takes no more than a nanosecond to register the ace in front of me. I'd know the crooked, wizened grin anywhere.

"Mags?" I asked, propping myself up on my elbows.

"Oh goody, you're awake." Her voice startles me, young and clear and light. And completely unlike the Mags I knew.

"Where am I?" I'm dressed in what looks to be a cross between paper tunic and a toga, I observe. The scenery appears to be a vacant hospital, void of the machines and tubes and needles, the sick, dying, suffering patients and the nurses scurrying about. "Where are the rest? Katniss? Gale? Peeta? Cressida? Pollux? ...Annie?" I manage to choke out.

"Finnick, no." She leans into me, shaking her head. "Try to remember. It may be a little fuzzy at first."

I look down, doing a little inventory of my limbs. All there. I tear away the sheets. Bruises of mottled purples and greens bloom across my chest, arms, and legs. Patches of alien skin clash with my own, pink and gold. Large bite marks smile up at me from my clavicle, stomach, and calves. I assess the situation. Definitely survivable.

"It's just a scratch!" I protest, planting my feet on the ground. It feels strangely immaterial, like it could jump out from under me at a moment's notice. I don't like it. "We need to find me some clothes." My eyes sweep over the semi-toga before I cast it down to the floor, wrinkling my nose. Mags doesn't appear to take notice of my utter lack of clothing. As my mentor, she has seen me barely dressed countless times, probably. Actually, all have Panem has, thanks to erotic ideas of past stylists. "A gun would be good, too." I muse out loud.

"Finnick, no." She frowns, obviously a little frustrated. "Try to remember." She pleads, pressing her palm to my cheek like she would from time to time. Her silvery blue eyes were weighed down with sorrow, staring into mine like she could see straight through to my soul. Maybe she could. That was just the thing about Mags; She didn't like to share everything she knew.

"Don't 'Finnick, no' me. I don't have time for this. I have to find my clothes, and a weapon. I have to find the others. I have to… I have to…" I couldn't quite remember what I had to do, but whatever it was, it was important. I turned away, shrugging off her hand and her cool, penetrating gaze.

"Finnick, stop." She reached out to grab one of my wrists, but I skirted away from her grasp, already headed down the aisle in search of something decent to wear.

"No, you stop. I have to go." I say to the air straight ahead of me.

"You won't find anything for you past these halls!" she shouts after me. Such an odd statement makes me pause. When I turn to question her about it, she's already behind me, surprisingly fast and without the assistance of her cane. It strikes me as odd, but I choose to ignore it.

"What is that supposed to mean?" I mutter accusingly.

She reaches out for my hands. This time, I allow her to take them. The frustration on her face is more than apparent now, adding to the creases on her forehead and knitting her eyebrows together.

"You tell me." she says to our hands instead of me.

It takes a long time, but it finally comes to me. My heart drops out of my chest. "I'm dead?" I breathe, not even a whisper.

She nods in response.

My head is aflame from the effort of recalling the memory. Or maybe it's just the blaze of the words sinking in. Either way, there's a violent buzz like a million tracker jackers fighting to escape my skull, eating away at my insides. _No. No. No, no, no!_

"No." I finally let out, throwing down Mags' frail hands, unafraid of breaking them for once. After all, if she's right, how much harm can one do a ghost? But she can't be – she must be confused – so I can only hope there's a doctor wandering around with some spare bandages in this oddly empty place.

Then I'm running. When I find the second pair of double doors locked against me, I begin to panic. _What sort of place are those Capitol goons holding me in now? Are they watching now? Trying to convince me I'm dead, then waiting for me to slowly exit the realm of sanity?_

"Are you done yet?" Mags is behind me again. "We can sit down and talk if you – "

"No!" I lashed out like a cornered animal. "You're lying! Just get away from me!" I shoved past her, flipping over the nearest cot as it were a children's toy and then barreling into it as if it could shelter me from reality. It was here that they came. The uncontrollable waves of sobbing. It was all I could do to curl into the corner, head in my hands, elbows over my knees, and allow Mags to tuck me into a retrieved sheet and hold me as the tears racked my body.

Sometimes, the living haunt the dead.


	2. Boy Meets Girl

AUTHOR'S NOTES: This fan-fiction series includes spoilers from all three books in the Hunger Games trilogy, especially the last. I recommend that you read all three books first.

Chapters will be posted upon writing, and all writing is subject to minor edits post-publication. Chapters bounce around between time periods and perspectives, and follow no real pattern.

You can follow me on Tumblr and Twitter (imxthexbridget) for more updates. Comments/concerns/suggestions are greatly appreciated. Most importantly, thank you for reading, and enjoy! -Bridget Who

Chapter Two: Boy Meets Girl (Finnick's POV, Past)

Only so many can survive. I am one of the "lucky" few. Glorified for savagely murdering my peers. It's sick. Now I have the "privilege" of mentoring the next victims from my district selected for the Games.

You'd think it'd be easier, coming from a district that's mainly career tributes. It's not. You put two killing machines who have trained together most of their lives and are friends, sometimes even family, into an arena, knowing only one maximum, sometimes neither, will come out alive.

It was easiest the first couple years, although neither sported a victor from Four, because I was still young – too young for Snow and his Capitol whores to get their hands on me – and arrogant. Those were the years before I met her, before she was chosen to go into the arena.

The day I first met her, as it was, was entirely as forgettable as any other Reaping. I was patiently awaiting the announcements of the newest tributes. That year my stylist had put me in a fitted suit of shimmery sea green material that matched my eyes, and I was fiddling with my tie.

"Anastasia Cresta." The first name was called. I looked up just in time to see the mousy-looking girl with startlingly wide doe eyes, the same sea green characteristic to almost all citizens District Four, step forward. Her hair, a wave of chestnut brown flecked with chocolaty and dark golden shades, fell past her shoulders in soft curls. I'd seen her before: In school, because she was only a year below me and a troublemaker until she dropped out. Now I saw her at work from time to time. I also vaguely remember Sammy pointing her out to me once.

I assessed the mouse girl as she took the stage. Relatively tall, I observed, with thin stilts for legs. Her posture told me she did not quite know what to do with them, nearly tripping over herself in her assent to the stage.

"Let's have a round of applause for this year's female tribute – Anastasia Cresta!" chirped Azure, our announcer and escort.

"Annie," corrected the girl into the microphone as the applause commenced, before taking her place beside me.

I got a closer look at her out of the corner of my eyes. Her skin was smooth and radiant, seemingly poreless from what I could see. She was dressed in a plain white frock and strappy gladiator-style sandals crafted from soft leather.

My eyes snap back up to catch the male tribute, Eliot Highwater, step forward. He looks young, probably only just turned twelve. He was rail-thin and by the looks of it, he hadn't even started training yet. I wouldn't count on him surviving the first twenty-four hours. But, then again, that's what some said about me, as young as I was when my name was pulled. Now my name is immortalized for beating the odds.

"Give it up for this year's tributes – Anastasia and Eliot!" Azure smiled.

"Annie," the girl mumbled.

I applauded politely, then turned to shake hands with each. Annie's handshake is firm, her hands calloused and her fingers long and slender. Eliot's is shaky. I clapped him on the shoulder to try and boost his confidence, but he lost his balance and nearly fell to his face. Annie caught him and righted him.

He gave her a look of gratitude. "Thanks."


	3. Madness

AUTHOR'S NOTES: This fan-fiction series includes spoilers from all three books in the Hunger Games trilogy, especially the last. I recommend that you read all three books first.

Chapters will be posted upon writing, and all writing is subject to minor edits post-publication. Chapters bounce around between time periods and perspectives, and follow no real pattern.

You can follow me on Tumblr and Twitter (imxthexbridget) for more updates. Comments/concerns/suggestions are greatly appreciated. Most importantly, thank you for reading, and enjoy! -Bridget Who

Chapter Three: Madness (Annie's POV)

It's been five months, I think. My stomach is swelling rapidly now. My baby is the only reason I sleep, the only reason I eat, the only reason I make any effort to stay alive.

It's Finnick. He lives on inside of me, in our baby. He visits me in my dreams when they are sweet, but especially in my nightmares. Dying. Somewhere someone is dying, always. Finnick is always dying in my nightmares.

At first, I was angry at everyone for his death. At myself for letting him go, at Plutarch for not bringing him back, at the Capitol and their cronies for killing him. I screamed for hours. My voice gave out. I cried until I had no tears left. I scratched at the wall until it was red with my blood; my fingernails had torn away, releasing fountains of crimson. The blood only furthered my frenzy. I turned a kitchen knife on myself, intent on piercing my skin in the same pattern as years ago.

I didn't get far, though, because a few slashes in I was interrupted by two soldiers sent to restrain me.

They were strong – the first kicked down my compartment door – but fairly low ranked. I figured I could handle them. They were armed with their pistols, but I was armed with the powerful will to destroy.

The first one made a go at me, and the knife clattered out of my hand and onto the tiled floor. I danced away from his grasp, though, and managed a kick to his temple. He exploded backwards into the dining table, which collapsed under his weight.

The second officer reached for me, until I took his arm and twisted. The bone gave a satisfying crunch, and he sank to the floor in agony. The soldier was reduced to a wincing heap when I heard something else – the cocking of a gun – and turned look down the barrel of the first soldier's pistol. Apparently he had had enough time to recompose himself, and now had his weapon aimed straight for my heart.

I let out a flat, humorless laugh. "Do it. Pull the trigger." And that he did.

When I woke up, it was to the monitor keeping track of my heart. _Beep. Beep. Beep._ Was it really possible that I still had any heart in me?

The first two times they tried to feed me, I refused. They hooked me up to a tube that fed me the vital foods and vitamins for my 'condition' – it hadn't taken them long to find out – along with a steady drip of sedatives and mood stabilizers.

The next time I woke up, I found that they had surgically replaced my fingernails. Goody. I used them to rip out the tubes and was about to gouge my eyes out when I was administered a dose of enough sedative to make a large elephant drop on the spot. After that incident, they secured my arms to my sides.

The past few months, though, I had been playing good patient. I still refused to eat or talk, but when they took my restraints off I didn't do anything that could be labeled as self-destructive. I didn't do anything, really.

For the past month now, they'd even allowed friends to come visit me. I didn't give them any response, but still they came.

Peeta brought me flowers, squeezed my hand and said quietly how grateful he was for Finnick saving his life more than once. He went into detail about how Finnick's knowledge and bravery had, by extension, saved Katniss, and for that he was forever in his – our – debt. He wove in comments about how brave and loyal and strong Finnick was, which touched me. Peeta always knew what to say.

Johanna put the Medal of Honor she had accepted in my place by my bedside, along with a few of my things – my clock that hadn't worked for years, a few seashells Finnick and I had collected that I kept on our bedstand, a pillow and the comforter from our bed – that she had been authorized to bring me. She visited me every other weekend and told me about her recuperation and training, and her undying gratitude to Finnick and I. She even shed a tear once, something I'd never imagined I'd see Johanna Mason do. Crying was something for the soft, and Johanna was as tough as they come.

Delly Cartwright, whom I had only met once or twice but apparently had a perpetually cheerful attitude, came in to comb and smooth down my bedraggled hair and joke about how I was getting big but still was still as beautiful as ever.

Today I woke up to find another pair of visitors, but neither whom I recognized. One wore a white doctor's coat and the other was in a simple nurses' uniform. They were not my usual attendants, though. When my eyes fluttered open, the new nurse seemed surprised, and turned to the man in the white coat.

"She's awake!" she said in a nasally voice.

"I doubt it; she's usually asleep." The man replied without looking up. He appeared to be jotting something down on a clipboard.

"Yes she is. See, look. Her eyes are open." The nurse contested.

The man looked up for a second but quickly disregarded me. "So she is. They must be weaning her off the sedatives before the surgery. Not to worry, though; she can't hear us."

_Yes I can. Is that what they think? Just because I don't talk back, I can't hear? Is that what they told everyone, why everyone came to visit? For closure, to say their last goodbyes to a girl dead inside, not to wish me recovery?_

The nurse, leaning over to rearrange my pillow now, bit her lip. "Are you sure?" she asked.

"Oh yes, quite positive. No response to verbal stimulus so far." He continued scribbling on the clipboard.

"No – I mean the surgery. Are they sure that it's necessary?"

"Dr. Aurelius thinks termination is the best option. The pregnancy only adds complication, and with Ms. Odair in no position to be a fit mother –" he trailed off.

_Termination? So they were just going to kill me?_

"Yes, but couldn't we just go through with it – the pregnancy – and find the child parents? I know Soldier Agnes has been trying to get pregnant, but she can't since the-"

The doctor shook his head. "Aurelius said the surgery is best for everyone involved. If she," he gestured to me, "ever wakes up, he doesn't want her to feel any obligation, any connection to the past."

Suddenly all the pieces fit. _They don't want to kill me, they want to kill Finnick's baby. My baby. Our baby._

_No. They can't - I won't let them – take away the baby. He's all I have left._

Both attendants seem to be in awe now. _Did I just say that out loud?_ _Yes._ My hands are on my balloon of a stomach now, and my throat and arms ache from the sudden effort after months of disuse.

"Did she just-" the nurse starts.

"Talk." The man in the white coat finishes. "This changes things. I need you to go fetch Aurelius."

"But he's-"

"Now, Murphey. I need you to get him now."


	4. Promise

AUTHOR'S NOTES: This fan-fiction series includes spoilers from all three books in the Hunger Games trilogy, especially the last. I recommend that you read all three books first.

Chapters will be posted upon writing, and all writing is subject to minor edits post-publication. Chapters bounce around between time periods and perspectives, and follow no real pattern.

You can follow me on Tumblr and Twitter (imxthexbridget) for more updates. Comments/concerns/suggestions are greatly appreciated. Most importantly, thank you for reading, and enjoy! -Bridget Who

Chapter 4: Promise (Finnick's POV)

"Yes. Yes. No. Yes." Azure, the escort, replied excitedly into the phone. She put a hand over the receiver and turned to grin at me. "Finn, darling, President Snow has requested your audience."

She took her hand off the receiver. "Yes. No. Of course." Then she whispered in my direction, "Your earliest possible convenience." Then back at the receiver. "Oh yes. You too. Have a _very_ nice day."

Azure put the phone back on the hook. Her expression suggested that I had just won _another _huge sum of wealth, but I wasn't too excited for the meeting. Especially since it was never elaborated what exactly the purpose of it was.

"Someone should wake the tributes up." I decided.

"I'm already up." Annie replied from the doorway. I hadn't noticed her enter. "Please don't bother Eliot, though, he really needs his rest. He didn't get to sleep until late last night." She said, taking a seat at the table.

I nodded, but Azure seemed consternated by this.

"And how would you know that, Miss?" Azure inquired. She had her hands on her hips now.

"He couldn't sleep, so I tucked him in and sang to him." Annie said plainly, as if it were something anyone else would do. "It still took him a while to drift off." She grabbed a biscuit from one of the platters and ripped it into two halves, swallowing one. "Please let him rest a bit longer." She pleaded to Azure, batting her long lashes.

Azure frowned. "Fine, then. Just know that we will be in the Capitol in just an hour or two, and the both of you must be presentable. I'm going to go order more tea."

I continued nibbling on my muffin until the door closed behind her, at which point I looked to Annie. She was staring at the remainder of her biscuit with a sort of blank expression.

"They're even better with jam. You should try it." I nudged the bowl of preserves toward her.

"No thank you, I'm not hungry." She replied. Her expression was an emotionless mask, impossible to read. She wasn't looking at me. This frustrated me for some reason I couldn't put my finger on.

"Are you sure? You wouldn't want to go into training on an empty stomach." I kept my composure. This was the girl I had met last night, somewhere off in her own separate world. The girl whose mind I desperately wanted to know.

"Finnick." She grabbed my hand, as if she was suddenly aware of my presence. "I need you to promise me something."

What could she be thinking? "As your mentor, it's already my job to do everything in my power to help you win."

"No." She finally returned my gaze. "Not me. Eliot. I know he's not much," Her eyes were becoming watery now. "But he's just a kid. He has a family. He has a life to live. I need you, no matter what you have to do, to make sure he comes back. Promise me." She was dabbing tears off her eyes with a cloth napkin.

The odds of myself sprouting wings were probably greater, but I wasn't about to tell this to the sad, desperate girl in front of me. I nodded. She was getting up from her seat when the car door opened behind us.

"Oh, Annie! Are you eating breakfast with me?" Eliot asked, taking the seat adjacent to the one Annie had previously occupied.

"Good morning, Eliot." She smiled, ruffling his hair. The girl I had just caught a glimpse of was gone. "I already ate; I'm full. You go ahead, though. The biscuits are great." Then she kissed him on the cheek and left.

He blushed at the kiss, but took a plate and began filling it with biscuits.

"They're even better with jam." I told him.


	5. Too Young to Die

AUTHOR'S NOTES: This fan-fiction series includes spoilers from all three books in the Hunger Games trilogy, especially the last. I recommend that you read all three books first.

Chapters will be posted upon writing, and all writing is subject to minor edits post-publication. Chapters bounce around between time periods and perspectives, and follow no real pattern.

You can follow me on Tumblr and Twitter (imxthexbridget) for more updates. Comments/concerns/suggestions are greatly appreciated. Most importantly, thank you for reading, and enjoy! -Bridget Who

**I wasn't sure how to format it, so the memory (which accounts for most of the chapter) is in italics. This is meant to be an intimate moment between Annie and Finnick the night of/early, early morning after the Reaping during which Annie remembers Asher Cresta (OC), her brother. I edited a LOT out, and it's still the longest chapter.

Chapter 5: Too Young to Die (Annie's POV)

Eliot reminded me of him so much. So young, so small. Confronted by his imminent death, with parents, and possibly siblings, to miss him.

That's why when Eliot knocked on my door, I opened it. I wiped away his tears and tucked him back into his bed. I perched at the foot of the bed and sang to him, the song about little fish that my father had sang to me when I was younger. The song I used to sing to my baby brother whenever he asked, because it made him smile, and he was so beautiful when he smiled.

I take a sip of tea. I couldn't let myself think of him then. I had had to be strong, for Eliot.

I'd almost let Eliot see me cry when I started singing, but I couldn't. Not until he was asleep. I had to be strong for Eliot, like I was strong for Asher. Like I was strong for myself after Asher's death. I never allowed anyone to see me cry.

I was not soft like them, I reminded myself. I was strong.

When Eliot had become still, started snoring, I was relieved. I fell silent and slipped away without a sound.

To give myself something to do I had gone to the kitchen car, which apparently functioned to cater to my whims twenty-four seven, and ordered a tea. I loaded it down with sugar cubes and found a plush couch in one of the cars. Too comfy. I pulled one of the cushions off and put it on the floor. Better.

Only now, in solitude, did I give the memories free reign.

There once were two people in love. All they wanted was a son. Instead, they got me.

Years had passed, and they had tried over and over to have another baby, a son. Just when it seemed impossible, my mother found out she was expecting again. I was six years old.

When my parents told me I was going to have a baby brother, I was very excited. I had even helped paint his room, which used to be my play room but which I didn't mind giving up, with sailboats and seashells.

When Asher was born, it was obvious there was something wrong. He was far underweight, and his skin was a sickly yellowish rather than a rosy pink. When I asked my father why he looked funny, he told me that his heart and liver didn't work right. I remember posing the question "Well, why don't we give him mine?", to which my father just shook his head. He would if he could.

I loved my brother. He had trouble with his lungs, too, sometimes, and couldn't run or jump or play because it was too dangerous. When he bled, he bled a lot. But Asher was good at observing things around him. He knew where the best place to fish was based on the tides. He knew where the neighbor's cat had run off to when it went missing. He could always tell when someone was lying. But most importantly, he knew when I was upset and how to make me laugh.

Kids in his year in school picked on him. They teased him because everyone knew Asher Cresta was crippled. District Four children were supposed to be hardy and athletic, strong runners and swimmers, and Asher would never be any of the above. He tried not to let it bother him, but I could tell it did. Whenever I got the chance, I got even with his bullies. I punched them or spit on them. I threw rocks at their heads or sand in their eyes. I even gave a kid half my age a broken wrist once, because they had deserved it. No, it wasn't a fair fight, but neither was picking on a kid for something he couldn't control.

I allowed a tear to escape me. The train was silent except for the hum of the engine. Everyone else, I presumed, was sound asleep.

Even able-bodied, I was always outshined by Asher in the eyes of my parents. My marks in school were never high enough, and I was constantly being reprimanded for fighting. My attitude was always chastised with "You should try being more like your brother." I didn't fold my laundry as neatly. I wasn't as perceptive. His table manners were impeccable; mine weren't. My parents complained for these reasons and many more. No matter what I did, it was never Asher enough for them.

I knew Asher didn't do it on purpose, and I didn't have any ill will towards him for it. I just kept trying. Trying to do better, as if it would make any difference. I could fold my laundry like him, but I would never be him. Therefore, I would never be enough.

Things were never the same without him.

_One day when we were in school, Asher in the second grade and I in the eighth, Asher became very sick. He was having coughing fits, nothing too out of the ordinary, but nothing they wanted spread amongst the other children, either. Both our parents were out working, so they called me down to take him home. When I picked him up he appeared fine, so I decided to take the opportunity to squeeze in some extra training._

_When I trained, I trained alone. Asher always begged to come watch me, promising he'd be extra careful, but I never allowed him to. The training center was no place for someone so fragile._

_That day, though, there was no one home to keep an eye on him, so I reluctantly agreed._

_When I did, Asher stopped walking. His eyes bugged out. I was almost beginning to worry that something was wrong, when he broke into the biggest grin I'd ever seen. This made me laugh._

_"Really?" he asked._

_I nodded. "Yes, really." I took his hand and led him the rest of the way._

_When we got in, the place was otherwise empty. The younger kids were in school, the older at work. This reassured me. At least I didn't have to worry about Asher having an incident with someone who wasn't wary of his condition, who maybe wasn't gentle or careful enough. It also meant I had my pick of the many training options – weight lifting being the second most popular, machines that tested and enhanced your flexibility being overlooked by most, and, of course, the pool almost always over crowded – without competition. This was to name just a few of the palette before me._

_My first instinct was the pool. Naturally, being from District Four, I was an innate swimmer, and the water beckoned to me like a second home. I instructed Asher to watch only from a rest bench, safe distance away from the pool in case he should risk falling in, and peeled off my school uniform. I was already wearing my swimsuit underneath, as I had planned to train after school._

_I walked up to the deepest section of the pool, nearly twenty feet, and looked to Asher to make sure he was safe. He gave me a thumbs-up from the bench._

_At this, I turned and swan-dove into the pool, adding extra finesse just for his viewing pleasure. When I came up, Asher was clapping with such vigor that I worried he might injure himself. His face was lit up with another enormous smile. He went to stand –_

_"Asher, no. Sit. Calm down." I said from the pool. He seemed a little crestfallen, but it didn't mar his elation too much. Afterwards, he answered my graceful dives with smiles and thumbs-ups and supportive comments. I did a few more, then switched to flips._

_"That was cool." Asher called. "Can you-" he trailed off into a coughing fit._

_"Asher, are you okay?" I asked. He doubled over._

_I propelled myself out of the pool and sprinted to him, leaving a trail of puddles where I stepped and not bothering to towel off. He was lying on the ground in a crumpled heap. Within seconds, I was knelt over him._

_"Asher. Asher, sit up tadpole." He liked it when I called him that. "Tadpole, are you okay? Can you sit up? Does it hurt?" I propped him up. Then I saw the blood. On his hands, dribbling down his chin. He coughed, splattering me with a fresh mouthful of the stuff._

_"I'm fine, Annie. I just-" he was coughing again. Every alarm in my head was going off, but I knew it would be no good to panic._

_"It's okay. It's okay, tadpole. I was done swimming anyway." I lied, gathering him in my arms. I kicked my uniform and backpack aside as I made my way to the door. I could carry Asher without effort, since he weighed next to nothing, but I had to be very gentle._

_I wasn't sure where we were headed, but I knew I had to get him there fast. If we had time, I could take him to the hospital on the edge of town, but a garbled sound from Asher told me most certainly did not._

_"You'll be fine, tadpole. Everything's going to be okay." I wasn't sure whether I was reassuring him or trying to convince myself. More of a combination of the two._

_I pushed my way out the double doors and was shouting. "Help! Somebody! Somebody help!"_

_There weren't many around to hear me, other than the sick, elderly, and retired. I found myself stumbling down a street. I didn't know which and I didn't care, not when I could feel Asher's heart fluttering so close to mine. All that mattered was when a short woman with a messy bun and an apron stuck her head out her door, probably to see what the ruckus was, and waved us in upon seeing us._

_Most people would probably be horrified at the sight of us – the front of my suit and of his uniform were now spotted with blood, and Asher was still coughing up a storm – but the woman just calmly waved us in and told me to wait on the sofa. Then she scurried off to – call the doctor, did she say? Even in Four, which I knew was much better off than some of the other Districts, only the wealthy or important had telephones._

_"Victors' Village. Yes. Third house on the left. Hurry." I heard her say into the phone in the next room over._

_It should have been obvious the instant I saw the house. On top of the fact that it was gigantic, far too big for lower or middle-class Four, the interior was lavishly decorated. The sofa that I was sitting on, that Asher was soiling with his blood, probably cost more than the sum of everything I owned._

_"Sammy! Please fetch me the towels!" she shouted at the ceiling. Or, rather, the floor of the next level. "All of them!" she added as an afterthought._

_She took a seat next to me and was already dabbing away blood with the corner of her apron. Not off her couch, I noted, but off Asher, off his chin and mouth. His uniform was soaked, beyond hope. It was astounding how much blood he'd lost._

_The woman seemed to read my mind. "Well, he sure is losing a lot of blood. I think…he might fit into some of Sammy's old clothes…Sammy?" The boy, a bronze-haired kid that looked a year or two older than Asher, was coming down the stairs with a pile of towels taller than himself. He looked shocked at the sight of us, but didn't scream. In fact, he didn't say anything. "Could you find the box with your old clothes and get this gentleman something clean to wear? And please lead this young lady to my closet to find something as well."_

_Sammy set the towels down on the floor and went back to the staircase, where he stood waiting. Was she serious? I looked at the woman for confirmation._

_"You can set him down here." She patted her lap. "Don't worry, he's in good hands. I won't bite." she said._

_I gingerly set Asher down. He moaned, but at least he had stopped coughing. I didn't want to leave my baby brother's side no matter whose hands he was in, but the woman was being overly generous and it would be rude to refused, so I forced myself to follow Sammy up the stairs._

_The staircase was elegant. Oak, I thought._

_He stopped at the top of the staircase and pointed to a door at the end. "Last door. When you walk in, the light switch is on the right and the closet's to the left." he told me before ducking into another door._

_I did as he said and found myself in the master bedroom. Everything was big. A spacious floor with plush beige carpeting, a huge canopy bed, and an oversize bookshelf all made me feel like everything I had ever known was far too small and crowded compared to this giant place. I went to the closet and picked out the plainest things I could find, a butter-yellow t-shirt and baggy sweatpants, for myself. Then I padded back down the stairs._

_The woman was still working on cleaning Asher up. Now that he had most of the gore washed away, he looked almost like he was sleeping, besides that his breathing was far too shallow and he still gave the occasional cough._

_"I apologize for the…emptiness upstairs. We're not quite done packing." Another thing I should have known. I should have recognized them from their televised interviews – the family of the most recent victor, Finnick Odair. Well, half of them. The other half, I guessed, were out at school or at work. Not that they needed to work._

_I also found it ironic that I had come into her house carting my violently ill brother and dripping with chlorinated water and blood and she was the one apologizing._

_"I'm sorry," I started, trying to find the words to express my gratitude._

_"Oh, no need. No need, dear. You weren't the one who did this to him. Victim of circumstance, dear. You're just lucky that," She wrung the towel out into a bucket of pinkish liquid, then soaked it in the clean water and went back to work. "The odds were in your favor, and I was home. Usually I work with Samuel and Finn, but Sammy was running a fever so I decided to stay back. Probably good Fifer's not here, too. Hates blood." Sammy had reappeared with a long-sleeved, button-down flannel shirt and a pair of jeans._

_"Oh, lovely." The woman trilled, taking the clothes._

_The doorbell rang, echoing through the house. Asher moaned. "And that'd be the doctor." she said, shifting so that Asher's head rested on an ornamental green pillow instead of her lap. She went to get the door, but the doctor let himself in when she was halfway there._

_The doctor was balding, tall and bulky. He carried a heavy-looking bag. He had glasses that looked too small for his head, and a head that looked too small for his body. He didn't look nearly as friendly as Asher's usual doctor._

_"I'm Marci, and this is Sammy and –" the woman stopped and frowned, but the doctor had already swooped down on Asher and was shooing us away. "We'll leave you to your work." She herded Sammy and I into the dining room and shut the door behind us._

_I sunk into a seat at the table, but resisted putting my head in my hands. Marci took a seat at the head of the table, and Sammy stalked off through another door._

_"It just occurred to me that I never asked your name." She said quietly._

_"I'm Annie. My brother's Asher. He's...delicate." That was the only short explanation I'd been able to think of._

_"I see. Pleased to meet you." Marci offered her hand, which I politely accepted._

_"You too." I replied automatically. To be honest, Marci was undoubtedly the most pleasant woman I'd ever met. I'd have been happy to meet her under different circumstances._

_Marci chattered on about how the new house had felt so empty at first, but how everyone was adjusting now, and how after a month of retirement she and her husband, Samuel, had decided to go back to work out of sheer boredom; Finnick had never quit, but now worked flexible hours around his obligations as a victor. She was just about to go looking for her old family photos to show me an image of five-year-old Finnick catching his first fish when the doctor walked in._

_My throat was suddenly dry, but I felt like I should be the one to ask. "Well?" I choked out._

_"He has a punctured lung." the doctor said. I sat back in my chair, and pulled my feet up to hug my knees. Maybe, if I could become small enough, I could disappear._

_"What does that mean?" Marci asked. I was sure I didn't want to know._

_"It means it's shocking he's held on this long." Marci gave my hand a gentle squeeze. "It means that you should gather the rest of your family and say your last goodbyes." He said._

_"Oh no...I'm not...We're not family." Marci stammered. She turned to me. "Your parents?"_

_"Will be home from work by now." I finished dryly. Marci took my hand and gave it another light squeeze, coaxing me out of my ball. The effort to disappear was in vain._

_"Well, I'll call them, Make sure they…know." She brushed a stray tendril of hair behind my ear. Then she spoke to the doctor. "Thank you, sir. You may leave now, unless there's something else…"_

_"There's nothing else I can do." the doctor said._

_Marci nodded and paid the man for his effort, and he left. Another thing, I supposed, that I owed Marci Odair for._

_Then I forced myself to go to the sofa. To my brother._

_Asher was alive, but only barely so. Someone had changed him into the new clothes, although the point was wasted because he was coughing up blood again. The shirt already had speckles of crimson blooming like deadly roses on his chest._

_Marci busied herself with making a series of calls until she got on the line with a neighbor of ours and talked to our parents._

_Asher smiled a little when he saw me. At first, I was afraid to touch him. I limited myself to running my fingers affectionately through his brown curly hair, which was identical to mine other than the cut. Then he drew in a shaky breath and laughed. Or maybe he was choking. It was hard to tell._

_"What is it?" I asked him._

_"You treat me like I'm a corpse." he wheezed._

_"I'm sorry." I took his hand and squeezed it, gently. It was sticky with his blood, but I didn't care. "I'm sorry, tadpole. For everything." I whispered, caressing his face._

_"Not your fault." he breathed. "'You're not the one who did this to me. Victim of circumstance, dear.'" Then he paused a while, as if deciding what to say._

_"Annie?"_

_"Yes, Asher?" I replied._

_"Do you love me?" he asked earnestly._

_I breathed in. "That's a silly question for someone as observative as yourself." I said._

_"That's not a real answer." he pointed out._

_"Yes, Asher. I love you very, very much, tadpole." I said to him, and kissed him on the forehead._

_He closed his eyes and smiled. Then his heart stopped beating._

I was snapped back to reality. Tears tracked down my cheeks.

At some point I had released my grip on the cup, and it was now on the floor in a mess of glass shards and tea. Finnick, who had entered without me realizing, was now staring at me expectantly.

"I'm sorry?" I asked, wiping away the tears with a sweep of my sleeve.

"I said 'Couldn't sleep either, huh?'" he said.

"Oh. No. I'm used to waking up this time." I lied, sniffling a bit then pulling the sofa cushion close as if it was from cold.

"Sure you are." he sighed.

"What's that supposed to mean?" I retaliated.

"I've been watching you for nearly an hour. I thought you were in some sort of coma. You dropped your mug of whatever that was, and then started crying." he said matter-of-factly. "And I never said anything until you asked what I said. That's what that means."

I didn't know how to refute that, but Finnick was still expecting and answer, so I quickly changed the subject.

"You look the same." I said blandly.

"What?" My comment had clearly confused him.

"When you first won I came to your house. You weren't there, but your brother and my brother and your mother were there, and she was wearing an apron. And I saw pictures of you. You look almost the same now as you did then." I blurted out before I could stop myself.

I expected him to say I was weird, or ask where that had come from or why I was in his house, but all he said was, "I didn't know you had a brother."

"I don't. I used to, but not anymore." I said. "I also don't cry in front of other people. Ever."


	6. The Price of Vanity

AUTHOR'S NOTES: This fan-fiction series includes spoilers from all three books in the Hunger Games trilogy, especially the last. I recommend that you read all three books first.

Chapters will be posted upon writing, and all writing is subject to minor edits post-publication. Chapters bounce around between time periods and perspectives, and follow no real pattern.

You can follow me on Tumblr and Twitter (imxthexbridget) for more updates. Comments/concerns/suggestions are greatly appreciated. Most importantly, thank you for reading, and enjoy! -Bridget Who

**I'm sorry that last chapter makes up about half of what I've written, and that these next few are so inexcusably short it should be crime.

Chapter 6: The Price of Vanity (Finnick's POV)

"You wanted a word with me?" I said politely. I was fighting the losing battle of trying not to gag on Snow's perfume, or cologne, or whatever he wore that made him reek of roses and blood. I wasn't sure what angle he was going for there.

"Ah, yes. The famous Finnick Odair. May I call you Finnick?" I didn't like the way his lips moved around my name. They were too large, too plump, too false. They made his mouth look like a hastily sketched cartoon when he spoke.

"You may call me whatever you like." I said.

"Good, good." When he licked those chops, I nearly cringed. Creatures like Snow - and much, much worse – were the reasons I only authorized slight, barely noticeable altercations by my stylists. Lowlights in my hair. Natural-looking eyelash extensions. Capricia was gracious enough to not force grotesque modifications on me, like a forked tongue or lizard's scales that seemed to be trending in Capitol fashion.

"Would you like a seat?" He waved towards a regal-looking armchair across the desk from him.

"I prefer to stand." I stated stiffly.

"Very well, then." he took his own seat. "Finnick, I have a proposition for you."

When I didn't reply, he raised his eyebrows and frowned. Obviously he had been expecting some sort of reaction to such an offer. "You are aware that you are very famous?" It was more of a statement than a question.

"Yes?"

"Well, of course you are. Such a handsome young man as yourself. Bound to be popular." He flashed a smile at me.

His teeth were not at all proportionate to his lips, making it look all wrong. Somehow, the image gave me the impression of a greater-striped reefer, with its minuscule, pearly white teeth and puffy lips, caught on my hook. But this was much different than fishing with Sammy or Dad. Here, Snow called the shots. I waited for his next move.

"The ladies of Panem – the Capitol, particularly – want to see more of you."

I cleared my throat. Damn, how I was choking on that putrid smell again. "Well, of course I'll be doing the mentors' interview after the opening ceremony tomorrow, just like every year."

He laughed, a big, boisterous laugh, like I had just told him the most hilarious thing ever. "Oh, no. They don't want an _interview_. They want something a little more..._intimate_." I arched an eyebrow. He continued. "You see Finnick, over the years they have developed quite an appetite for you. Now…well, now you are just old enough to feed it."

"I'm afraid I don't understand what you're getting at here." _I'm afraid I don't want to._

"I'll try to clarify. Ladies of the Capitol have been simply clamoring for the _pleasure_ of meeting you in person. For you to keep them...company for a night or so, well, that would be quite a lot to them." His tone filled in all the words he neglected.

"Are you suggesting...?"

"What do you think?"

"I think you're out of your damn mind!" My respect flew out the window. As if a knee-jerk reaction and accomplice to my sudden fury, I kicked the armchair, knocking it over. My fist itched to bloody the vile man.

"_Tsk, tsk, tsk_. Now Finnick, we mustn't lose our temper. That really is no way to speak to your President." Snow said in mock reprimandation. He snapped, and two uniformed Peacekeepers appeared out of nowhere. They made a beeline for me, reached out and –

Righted the overturned seat.

"Sit." Snow's voice oozed with poison and insincerity as he shooed the Peacekeepers away.

I sat, but slowly, defiantly. "I'm sorry, Mr. President." I said through clenched teeth, letting sarcasm drip from every syllable. "You were saying?"

"Yes, as I was saying. Each would be willing to pay you generously for your time and –"

"I'm not interested in money." I said crossly, callously.

"Oh, come now, Finnick. We all have our price." he purred.

"Yeah?" I got out of my chair. "Well, mine was murdering seven people in your little games." I paused, allowing for the cringe-worthy memory to resurface. Yes, it was exactly seven people, not including possibly the most important, my partner, who threw her neck on the chopping block for me. "I'm done doing your dirty work. You'd better find someone else for the job, because I don't see myself _pleasuring_ any of your Capitol sluts and time soon."

At this I spun on my heels and left, my ears buzzing with pure fury.

I never heard Snow ask ominously from behind me, "So, Finnick, how _is_ the family?"


	7. The Girl Who Goes In

AUTHOR'S NOTES: This fan-fiction series includes spoilers from all three books in the Hunger Games trilogy, especially the last. I recommend that you read all three books first.

Chapters will be posted upon writing, and all writing is subject to minor edits post-publication. Chapters bounce around between time periods and perspectives, and follow no real pattern.

You can follow me on and Twitter (imxthexbridget) for more updates. Comments/concerns/suggestions are greatly appreciated. Most importantly, thank you for reading, and enjoy! -Bridget Who

**Again, I apologize for inexcusably atrocious length and quality. I also apologize for the many revisions that are inevitable. Since Collins gives us very little detail about Annie and Finnick's personal lives/backgrounds, I have a lot of blanks to fill in. Because the story bounces around, as the story evolves things from previous chapters must be added/removed/changed. I try to keep these to a minimal, but my writing really has no final...it's all just an extensive draft. Even after many edits, I don't care much for this chapter. However, I am eager to publish it so that I can move on, so please bear with me.

Chapter 7: The Girl Who Goes In (Annie's POV)

They say it changes you, the arena.

That something about having someone's life in your hands makes you feel invincible.

When I hear this, I laugh. A sad, very not-funny kind of laugh that is the fruit of carrying a burden those other girls can't even begin to imagine. Sometimes I just laugh to keep from falling apart.

I held a life in my hands, and it made me feel anything but powerful. It did not lift me up like Finnick Odair, who struts around town in his free time, collecting the adoration of and eliciting sighs from girls wherever he goes. It did nothing but weigh me down.

That's why, when I'm in the market and overhear other girls in my year gossiping about the glory of being a tribute, I just laugh.

I laugh, in a way, because they are oblivious. Their bodies are athletically toned, but without necessity; my wiry, muscular body is put to use. Their mommies and daddies fill their stomachs; I work for my next meal. They grope about pesky younger siblings; I wish I could've had just one more moment with mine with every molecule of my existence. They are coddled and cosseted; I am calloused, starved of affection, and empty. They don't know pain; I do.

It has been almost three and a half years since his death.

Marci, of course, had opened her big, beautiful house to me, - there were more than enough spare rooms – insisting that I stay at least until morning, when my parents would collect me and arrangements could be made. I hadn't known how to refuse, so I'd just excused myself to bed as early as possible.

Marci'd shown me to little Fifer's room, as it was one of two that was furnished but uninhabited that night; Fifer was staying over at a friend's house, and Finnick and Samuel working the late shift to sort the days' catch. She brought in several extra pillows and blankets and told me how to get to the bathroom before leaving to cook dinner for Sammy and make more calls.

I'd been grateful that she didn't force any more kindness or consolation on me. I wanted solitude, and somehow she understood.

If Asher wasn't there to comfort me, I was too far gone to take any comfort in others.

The bed was incredibly soft, but I made no attempt at sleep, just sat at the edge of the bed for a long time.

At some point, I'd ventured to the window nook. The front of the house faced town, the wide expanse of the District where nearly everyone would be returning home for the evening. The average citizen of Four would be entering the white picket fence that marked home and sharing supper with their loved ones right about then. Perhaps they'd be tucking young children into bed, whispering "Good night" as they extinguished candles and kerosene lamps or, for the middle and upper class, flicked off light switches.

Fifer's room, however, was positioned at the backside of the house, and an entirely different scene stretched out in front of me.

Victors' Village was planted on the very edge of Four, where the land met the ocean. From there, it was just a short walk to the water, a worn path through the tall beach grasses and mixed shrubbery.

Asher would've liked it, I'd decided. He'd liked walks, even though he usually didn't get far. He'd give me that sheepish, apologetic grin and giggle a little bit as I hoisted him into my arms.

Yeah, Asher would've liked it.

I'd just sat and waited until I heard the thumping up the steps that signified Marci and Sammy retiring, then an extra hour or so for good measure. When I heard no activity, I'd slipped out of my chair, out of the room and down the hallway, never really making the conscious decision of where I was going or how or why. I'd paused briefly at the steps, but when I tested the first with my foot and it gave not telltale creak, glided down the rest and out the back door easily.

I turned back to the house for a moment, thinking I was a face illuminated in one of the windows, but quickly decided it was my eyes tricking me and dashed for the path.

After that, I never turned back.

For almost three and a half years, I'd removed myself from society as much as possible.

I never cried in front of an audience, or seeked sympathy. I was stronger than that, the pity, but still had my weak times; times when I had to laugh to keep myself from falling apart, times when I'd wait until I could lock myself in my quarters and break down.

If anyone made any attempt at finding me, it didn't show. I dropped out of school, which was rare but not unheard of, for a job on one of the rusty old fishing trawlers, and accepted food and board as payment, but every once in a while I'd have to go back into town to the market. I'd see a glimpse of a familiar face, an old friend even. Nobody greeted me. Most regarded me as just another passerby or customer. There were always the whispers, though, that mingled in with friendly chitchat and airheaded gossip of the market. I was the one who ran away, the one whose brother died. I was these and many more.

At work, of course, this sort of infamy was avoided. There was no idle speech aboard the old, rusty trawler that reeked of mold and fish guts. Most my co-fishermen were men in their late thirties to mid-fifties, and were as integral a part of society as I was, meaning not at all. I recognized Samuel and Finnick Odair from time to time, but if they had any knowledge of my visit that day in Victors' Village, they didn't let on that they did.

My parents, of course, never bothered with me. Why would they? I was never more than a disappointment to them, the not-Asher of the family. They blamed me, I knew. But in nearly three and a half years, they'd never attempted to contact me, and vice versa. That's what I'm musing over this Reaping day. That's what I'm musing over as my name is called.


	8. Broken (Death and Victory)

AUTHOR'S NOTES: This fan-fiction series includes spoilers from all three books in the Hunger Games trilogy, especially the last. I recommend that you read all three books first.

Chapters will be posted upon writing, and all writing is subject to minor edits post-publication. Chapters bounce around between time periods and perspectives, and follow no real pattern.

You can follow me on Twitter (imxthexbridget) for more updates. Comments/concerns/suggestions are greatly appreciated. Most importantly, thank you for reading, and enjoy! -Bridget Who

**This part will be in two or three chapters (home/Capitol/return home), with separate chapters between.

Chapter 8: Broken (Finnick's POV)

Everything was just broken.

I was broken. My house was no longer a home.

Annie was broken. She no longer saw the reality that the rest of us saw; what she saw instead reduced her to a shrieking mess.

I couldn't bear to leave her side. I needed to be able to protect her, to hold her and hush her and help her.

She almost seemed better when I was there, when I entrapped her in my arms and cooed her until she quieted.

Some days were better than others. Some days she could sit and eat toast and jam for breakfast with me, or walk down to the beach and collect sea glass.

Others were not so easy, and she would break things or wail and thrash when I tried to soothe her. I fingered over a scar she'd left only a week ago when she'd aimed a vase for my head before immediately being reduced to her incoherent mumbling – something about there being so much blood – and I'd had to put in stitches myself. On days like that, any attempt to help her seemed evidently fruitless and futile, but I never gave up, and Annie always came back to me.

So, of course, the first time I got called to the Capitol, I was torn. I had just tucked Annie into bed, and yet suddenly she was so far away. So unattainable and so easily taken away.

I didn't want to go. I couldn't. I couldn't leave her.

And yet, I knew disobedience would be even more harmful. I packed a bag.

One night, I told myself. I could pretend it was just a bad dream, and be back in the morning.

Snow's personal hovercraft and prep team was to arrive in exactly an hour to collect me.

I walked back to my own house, which was barely inhabited at this point, and called the last remaining person I knew could offer some comfort.

She was always there for me. Not at public affairs, usually, because she was not deemed "presentable," but when it really counted.

She picked up on the last ring.

"What?" Mags's voice came to me through the receiver. She never subjected me to chit-chat or fluff – that was for the cameras – and I was grateful for it.

I sputtered a bit, realizing that I had been choking back tears since receiving the call from the Capitol. _Man up, Odair_. "I'm on my way over."

She mumbled assent, then a _click_ notified me that she had disconnected.

I ditched my duffel by the door before I stepped out and was greeted by the salty, humid air.

I loved ocean breeze. It was warm and moist and carried the calls of content pelicans, seagulls, and the sandpipers that nested in the tall grass along the border of the yard. Tonight, though, it offered no comfort.

I trudged past the doors of the other Victors – Shea, a middle-aged woman who kept to herself mostly since her husband was lost in a fishing incident, and Magnus, an elderly mute man who could often be seen bent over a meticulously kept garden – before coming to Mags' driveway.

There she was, on her dimly lit porch, hunched over in her pale nightgown, with an afghan clutched tightly over her shoulders. She waved me in impatiently.

"Would you like tea?" her words came out almost scrambled. I was glad I'd gotten accustomed to her voice, because otherwise I'd hear something along the lines of 'Oud ew laika tee.'

"No thank you." I took a seat at the cozy breakfast nook. It smelled like a strange but pleasant combination of maple syrup, shellfish, and sage. I breathed it in.

Mags, ignoring my declination, set a mug of the concoction in front of me. It smelled inviting, so I took a sip.

"What's on your mind?" she asked. I replaced my cup on the coaster.

"A lot." I answered honestly. "Annie's either gotten better or worse. It's hard to tell. And now they want me to make a trip to the Capitol on such short notice."

"She's not mine, and I was hoping you could. Just for the day – I should be back before sunset. If you need help, I could always ask one of the fishermen.

She waved the offer off. "Hodge-podge. I can handle it myself. I'm not *that* old, you know." It was true. For sixty- or seventy-something (I had to guess, because she refused to tell me her actual age.), Mags was sturdy. I trusted her enough for the job. "What do they need you in the Capitol for, anyway?"

I debated telling her truth, if only to get it off my chest. _To sell my body. My family was the price of keeping it this long. And it's my fault, my fault, my fault... _In the end, though, there was nothing she or anyone else could do, and information was only danger. Information was something to be tortured out of a person.

"I'm not sure. Something about a young Victors' banquet." I said vaguely.

"Oh, well give me a call when you get there, I guess." She went to pour herself another glass of tea.

"Will do. How's Wilbur?" I was referring to Mags' pudgy old tabby cat. Usually he could be found napping on one of the sofas or windowsills. When Mags left the house, though, Wilbur was sure to follow.

"Just fine. Oh, he's around here somewhere. Wilbur?" she started whistling a tune. "Ah, there you are." The cat came from around the corner. She bent over to scratch him behind the ear lovingly, before settling her teacup, with the rest of her tea, in front of him.

This made me raise my eyebrows. I'd never seen a cat drink herbal tea before, but Wilbur seemed to be enjoying his quite a bit.

Mags leaned across the breakfast nook towards me, looking into my eyes searchingly. "Anything else you wanted to tell me?"

"It's getting late. We should get some rest." I said, knowing it wasn't the answer she wanted.

She glanced out the window. Outside, the sun had sunk and the night sky was nearing murky navy-black. "So it is." She collected my empty cup, setting it into the sink.

I strode across the kitchen to pull her into a hug. "Thank you. For the tea, for taking care of Annie. For everything." I told her.

"You too, Wilbur." I said, bending down to pet the creature, who was now done with his tea and contentedly grooming himself. "I'm sure you're great at whatever it is that you do."

"Keeps mice away." Mags grunted.

"Ah, okay. Useful." I straightened up. "Well, goodnight." I directed towards her. She mumbled assent, and I left out the back door.

I trudged back home, realizing that I'd made a habit of falling asleep with Annie in my arms.

Not tonight, though. Tonight this body was meant for something far more insidious.

I snuck a quick glance at my watch. It was treated leather – modest, at least my Victors' standards – and I was rather fond of it. Tonight, though, I could not bear my reflection in the clock face.

Twenty minutes left, I calculated before tearing it off my wrist and casting it away.

This amused me in a sad, bitter way. My watch, the first article to come off.

I paced at the doors before walking in. It had occurred to me just how many mirrors there were in the house – old ones, new ones, one that had to be replaced after the "incident".

The public cause of death of my mother and father was a boating accident, the explosion of the motors when the engine malfunctioned; my brother and sister, drowning when the ship went down. This worked out, because I was one of maybe a half dozen people who knew the real story. Who saw their brains, blown out of their skulls and across my carpet like grotesque paint on a canvas.

Snow, whoever did his dirty work, myself, the interior decorators sent straight from the Capitol who couldn't make a sound if they tried, and the mortician whom I paid a great deal extra to not look closely and to nail the coffins shut – it was our little secret.

The mirror above the hearth had to be replaced, this one without the inscription of "happy family" that its predecessor had had. The carpeting was redone, and with it the entire lower level had been revamped. We hadn't had a sofa in four years but I had one now, regal-looking and velvety to the touch, just like the armchair in Snows' office. It mocked me.

I cursed at the chair under my breath, and found myself at the study.

This is where my father spent took his last breath. Sometimes, I try to imagine just what was going on through his head, before its contents were projected across the room. Maybe he heard his killer come in, and thought it was Sammy and Fifer arriving home from school. Maybe he had just awoken from a late afternoon nap in his favorite chair. I'll never know. He landed face-up a yard or so from the desk. He was grinning. The bullet pierced him right between the eyes; maybe even if he saw it coming, he wouldn't have had time to process it, to feel any pain before it was all over. I hope to die like that.

Today, though, is not my dying day. Tonight I will be at the Capitol's disposal once again, this time without the mercy of death or of victory.

Death and victory. Annie's image comes sharp to my mind.

She, of course, reined Victor, but I do believe that a piece of her died.

Annie. She'll wake up tomorrow without me.

I try not to panic about it as I see the brilliant luminescence of headlights flood in through the study window. Soon after, I hear a knock at the door.

"I'm sorry," I whisper into my hand as I venture back out into the living room, although I'm not sure whom the apology is directed at; Annie, my father, my family, or myself. I pick up my bag, take a deep breath, and open the door.

"Good evening."


	9. All Yours

AUTHOR'S NOTES: This fan-fiction series includes spoilers from all three books in the Hunger Games trilogy, especially the last. I recommend that you read all three books first.

I'm so, so, so sorry for how late this is. I've been away for an inexusable amount of time due to being busy with schoolwork and having writer's block on top of that. It's short, but at least it's something. The little bit in parenthesis ( ) is meant to be italicized (I had to type this into Notebook).

You can follow me on Tumblr and Twitter (imxthexbridget) for more updates. Comments/concerns/suggestions are greatly appreciated. Most importantly, thank you for reading, and enjoy! -Bridget Who

Chapter 9: All Yours (Finnick's POV)  
"Help me with all these buttons?" She asked timidly.  
I realized with a bit of a blush that I'd been staring. Really, I couldn't help it. Her cheeks were rosy pink, though slightly more sallow than I liked to see on her. Contrasting with the forest green dress, her complexion gave the impression of a porcelain doll. Her hair fell down in a cascade of gentle waves now that it was untethered. The gown hugged her narrow waist and broader hips. Her eyes, slightly greener than mine, shown like bluish emeralds. Scars that pained my eyes were erased. Her long, adept fingers were capped with carefully buffed and polished nails, but were now fumbling to reach the buttons lining the back of her dress.  
"Of course." I got up from the mattress to help her. She stood still while I carefully undid the buttons one by one. By the last, I could feel her lungs inflating and deflating with a heavy breath. The dress fell to the carpet in a pile of smooth, shimmery fabric. Underneath it she'd worn a light slip.  
After another deep breath, she turned to face me. She was tall, only an inch or two shorter than me. Her nose was just level with my lips; I kissed her there lightly. Her long eyelashes fluttered, brushing my cheeks. When I drew away, I noticed that her eyes were brimming with tears.  
I paniced. "What's wrong? Are you hurt?" I was so used to, in the past years, tiptoeing around scars and bruises, physical and emotional.  
"No, I-" she shook her head, her curls flowing like a dark veil. "I'm happy."  
Relief washed through me. I took her into my arms for probably the millionth time since she was recovered to 13. I didn't ever want to let go. "You'll never be otherwise for as long as I can help it." I promised.  
"I know." she said, wiping away tears that glittered like jewels. "I just-" Another long pause. "I thought I might never see you again." She squeezed me tighter.  
I had been forced to believe the same for several long months; it had made a madman of me. So, of course, I had been driven equally crazy with elation when I got my Annie back.  
"Hey," I said, freeing my arms to lift her chin up. I reached for her hands, interlacing her fingers with mine. "You never have to worry about that again. I'm all yours."  
She snuggled into my chest, murmuring something into my collarbone before begining to shake.  
(Not tonight. Oh, please, not tonight.) I held her close, not intending on letting go, and scooped her up into my arms like I had a thousand times before. She offered no resistance, and let me carry her to bed this way. This I had gotten used to after countless nights being her guardian rather than lover, but this time she surprised me.  
Instead of letting me curl up into bed beside her, she pulled me ontop of her slender figure and into a deep and powerful kiss. Her kisses held both great joy and great sorrow, as her tongue danced with mine and the wetness from her cheeks tainted my own. It was all the pain of yesterday, the newness of today, and the promise of tomorrow in the shortness of her breath, and the trembling of her fingers as the moved to unbutton my shirt.  
"You don't have to," I stopped her, wiping the moisture from her face with a stroke of my thumb.  
"I want to," she returned my cautious gaze. "I want you."  
"I'm all yours, Annie. All yours." I kissed her with mixed ferocity and tenderness, with all the fire I had left in me. 


End file.
